


nothing lasts forever, babe

by meanpancake



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Genderqueer Character, Other, vague special agents AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanpancake/pseuds/meanpancake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is on the run. Porthos tries to keep up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. crawling back to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naeviastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naeviastark/gifts).



> Warnings that apply will be listed in each chapter's beginning notes. In this one, there is a short mention of PTSD and suicide.

**2013, spring**

Porthos sits with his back to the door, facing two untouched glasses of wine. Red wine. The one Aramis likes and that he only drinks whenever they meet, because Aramis insists they drink the same. Same brand, same amount, at the same time. It's one of their rules, and it's one of the less... _peculiar_ ones, if Porthos is honest with himself. (He decides not to be honest with himself, though, he never is in Aramis-related situations.)

Absently, he traces the edge of the desk with his fingertips. Soft chatting fills the bar, it smells like smoke, and there is music in the background. Not that any of that matters – it doesn't, and he doesn't really pay attention to it in first place -, but it's easy to pretend that this is just a regular night out after work. His hand slips into his pocket before he remembers that he has no phone with him. Another of their rules.

Porthos shakes his head. This set-up is ridiculous. Not to add dangerous, ill-advised, and potentially deadly to the list. If things went particularly bad, he could also be fired and locked away, he's aware of that. There is nothing he could say in his defense anyway. Porthos feels a familar guilt settling in his stomach. He is a traitor. Merely sitting here and waiting for Aramis is treason. Yet he can't _stop_. If one of them is to end this – whatever it is they're having -, then it has to be Aramis. And an end is inevitable, this much is clear. He both longs for and dreads this moment, the moment it will finally be over. He can't help the desperate smile that plays around the corners of his mouth.

 _Liar_ , a small voice whispers in the back of his head, _it will kill you_.

“Get up.”

He skips a breath. Aramis' voice sends a jolt of excitement down his spine and he feels his pulse thundering in his ears. They've been doing this for years and he tells himself he is ready, _prepared_ every single time, but he still isn't used to it. He'll never be used to it.

“ _Porthos_.”

Aramis doesn't sound impatient, but ne doesn't sound patient either. He stands up and suddenly Aramis' hands are on him, frisking him. The world is reduced to Aramis' touch, the sounds washed out and the borders of his perception blurred. Nir movements are rehearsed, swift and thorough. Porthos hopes other people interpret this as awkward hugging ritual and not, well, what it really is. The whole procedure can't take more than a few moments, but it's still too damn long, and anxiety builds up in his chest. He doesn't say anything, though, and makes himself stay still.

“Alright, you can sit down again.”

Porthos does, pulled down by an imaginary weight, and only when Aramis steps into his sight, is his heart-rate normalizing again.

“You're late,” Porthos says as Aramis sits down in the opposite chair, crossing nir legs and taking the wine.

“You're early.” Aramis smiles, looking past him and giving the room a quick check. There are two exits, seven potential attackers or witnesses, depending on the scenario, and a dozen things within reach that could be used as a weapon if the situation called for it; Porthos follows Aramis' thoughts as if they were his own.

“So...” Aramis takes a sip from nir glass. Ne looks tired and nir hair is messed up, but something in nir expression softens once ne finds his eyes. “Did anyone follow you?”

“I'm a member of a special forces unit.”

“That's not an answer.”

“I know, Aramis. Let's get this over with, okay?” Porthos forces his hands to stop twitching. “Nobody followed me, I haven't told anyone where I go, I don't have my phone on me, and I'm not wired. This meeting never happened.”

“Meeting? How _official_.” Aramis smiles, but ne can neither stop the tension nor the weariness from showing on nir face. Porthos doesn't answer and averts his gaze. It's almost automatic. Aramis doesn't like being watched and he doesn't know what to say anyway. It's the first time they see each other in _months_ , and yet the silence is overwhelming. There are no words left that haven't been exchanged a long time ago. The sense of an impending ending hangs heavy between them. That they keep coming back to this is... a matter of habit.

Porthos chews on the inside of his cheek, until the mix of copper and salt tinges his mouth. It's a welcome distraction from Aramis' stare. He can feel nir eyes upon him and it's making him restless, anxious.

“I can't stay long,” Aramis says, finally, and empties nir glass in one gulp. Ne sets it aside with a low thud, then ne reaches out to him. Nir skin is warm, the pads of nir fingers soft. “Listen, I don't know when we can meet again.” Aramis inhales and nir voice is low as ne continues: “If we can meet again. So please don't... don't say _nothing_.”

“Why?”

“Why I don't know when we can repeat this merry session of silence? Well, it sure isn't because your unit is still hunting me like a goddamn animal. That's nothing but a minor nuisance. It certainly hasn't ruined my life or anything.” Aramis pulls away from him and makes a noise that could be a strangled laugh or a scornful huff. Maybe both. Porthos isn't sure. He almost never is when it comes to Aramis. Not anymore. There was a time when he thought he'd understand Aramis, but then... Savoy happened. And everything changed. But he doesn't tell nem that. What good would it do? None. It would only separate them further, and the gulf between them already seems so irreconcilable that it makes Porthos sick.

“I'm sorry.”

Aramis shakes nir head. “I don't want you to be sorry.”

“What _do_ you want then?” Porthos can't help the anger seeping into his voice. He's so tired of this. He's tired of hiding, tired of playing games, tired of betraying everything he works for and believes in. He's tired of constantly being torn between duty and his feelings for Aramis. He's tired of not having nem around, too, of hearing rumours, of getting pitiful or hateful looks, tired of actively being a part of the team that is supposed to arrest nem. He's tired of pretending Aramis doesn't mean anything to him in front of his colleagues. He's tired of it all.

“Alright, I will tell you what I want.” Aramis' eyes are furious, nir voice cold and cutting like a knife. “I want my friends back and I want you back. But neither is going to happen, isn't it? They are dead and you are with _them_. After all they have done. You still choose them over me.”

Porthos' throat closes up. “That's not fair, Aramis.”

“Fair? I'll tell you what isn't fucking fair.” Ne is barely whispering now. “I'm a fucking ghost. I can't stay in one place for longer than a day. I suffer from PTSD, but I can't get help because it would lead them right to me. Everyone I trust is either dead or under permanent surveillance. Well, you're here, but you can't even talk to me without getting smothered by shame and regret.” Aramis laughs silently, angry tears glistening in nir eyes. “You know what? Sometimes I'm so lonely and terrified that I can't _breathe_. They didn't kill me yet, but they're doing a great job at making me want to end this mess myself. And all that? That's not fair, Porthos, it's not fucking _fair_.”

“I'll come with you.” The words are out, before he can properly think them over, but his heart aches and the overwhelming need to keep Aramis close, _safe_ , almost tears him apart, so he repeats it. _I'll come with you_.

Aramis looks at him for an endless moment, until ne suddenly gets up and turns to leave. Porthos grabs nem by the arm, and it's instinct, really, and a shot of desperation that makes his skin crawl.

"Wait, please-"

"Let go."

"Babe-"

"Don't fucking call me that," Aramis hisses and turns around to face Porthos. "You don't get to call me that anymore." Ne shakes nir head, mumbling something Porthos doesn't quite catch. "Oh, fuck it." The kiss is quick and desperate and Porthos returns it with everything he has.

When Aramis breaks away at last, they agree not to talk anymore. Not tonight. But maybe... maybe next time.


	2. just one yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update, finally! There are mentions of violence and death in this chapter, but nothing too explicit.

**2010, summer**

Porthos wakes up to the sound of the bedroom door closing. He blinks, turning to his right – not surprised to find Aramis’ side of the bed untouched. Proof of another night spent anywhere but their bed. (He once caught nem, hunched up in a corner and rocking back and forth. The look Aramis gave him then was so empty that Porthos wanted to burst into tears, but he turned around and went back to bed. In the morning they'd both pretended that it never happened.)

He touches the cool fabric, because he just _has_ to. It makes his heart ache with a familiar pain that’s quickly followed by a sharp pang of guilt. Also familiar.

Morning light falls into the room and paints it different shades of pale colours. Porthos closes his eyes again, but he feels uncomfortably awake. Resteless. _Anxious_. And it’s selfish and fucked up, because why should this night have been different? Aramis has been doing this since ne came back from the hospital. Nothing has changed since then. Neither Aramis’ “condition”, as their colleagues put it, nor his own helplessness regarding… well, Aramis.

Porthos pinches the bridge of his nose, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. He shouldn’t be making it all about himself. He’s aware he does it, especially in the mornings when Aramis seems so distant, so _unreachable_ , that he feels lonely even when they’re sitting side by side. All he can think about in this moments is how fucking unfair it is. And he really, really shouldn’t do that. What happened to Aramis... Porthos feels his stomach turn. How could he possibly make it about himself? After everything...?

The urge to flee the bed, flee the emptiness of it, becomes so strong that Porthos finally gives in. Walking to the bathroom feels like running over a mine field. The mere thought of stumbling into Aramis makes his chest clench – he can’t face nem, can’t face the reality of what’s destroyed between them. Not quite yet. _It’s mutual_ , Porthos thinks and can’t help the relief he feels. Aramis usually avoids him in the morning, sometimes wide into the afternoon. And even then they don’t really talk.

Porthos snorts sadly. What should they talk about, anyway? The kids killed at Savoy? Aramis lying in a pool of nir own blood, unable to move, to _help_ , watching them die one after the other, for almost twenty-four fucking hours? Yeah, right. Porthos brushes his teeth, but he can’t wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

He honestly sees no way of talking to nem, without diminishing the impact of what’s happened. And so he waits for Aramis to talk; but when ne does, he never knows what to say. Sometimes it’s only a word ( _Why?_ and it rips Porthos’s heart into pieces), sometimes a sentence ( _I know it’s ugly._ and Porthos realizes with horror that he’s staring at the pink scar on nir shaved head). Sometimes Aramis says something under nir breath and it’s not meant for his ears ( _I don’t understand this. It doesn’t make any sense, there_ must _be a mistake._ and Porthos chokes on his own guilt). And sometimes Aramis doesn’t say anything and reaches for his hand, pulling it away in the last second and leaving the room without a look back.

Porthos doesn’t know how to handle it. They took seminars, back when they were in training, and he was so convinced to be suitably prepared for situations like these, so convinced of himself. But now that he's faced with the reality he's come to the realisation that he has no idea. They drift further apart, regardless of his – _their_ \- effort. It’s like no matter how hard he tries, there’s just no way of doing it right. Even though he _owes_ it to Aramis to do it right.

Porthos closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The world stands still for a moment, and when it continues to move, Porthos moves with it. He goes to the kitchen, where Aramis sits at the table. Guilt rushes through his body, along with the furious beat of his pulse.

 _I’m sorry I failed you_ , burns on his tongue, but he forces a smile. “Good morning.”

“Didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry,” Aramis replies softly and looks at him. There is something different about nem, about nir demeanor, but Porthos can’t figure out what it is, and so he hints a shrug and says: “No harm done. Join me for breakfast?”

“I can’t.” Aramis averts nir gaze again. Ne frowns and for a moment it chases away the ghost-like expression that dominates nir face most of the time. Porthos isn’t sure Aramis is even aware of this – and what does it matter, really?

“Today’s the memorial,” Aramis says suddenly. “I’m not going. And you shouldn’t, either.” Nir voice is still soft, but there is an alertness to it that twists Porthos’ stomach.

He nods without hesitation. “Ok. We’re not going.” Because this? This is something he can do. If Aramis wants him to stay at home, he will. No questions asked. It is more than enough to know that the memorial is for the victims of the Savoy incident. _Incident_. The first person who’d called it that in front of him didn’t repeat their mistake a second time. (It had been Athos, to nobody’s real surprise. You can always count on Athos to follow the protocol and handle a massacre like Savoy matter-of-factly.)

“Promise me.”

“I promise you, Aramis.”

Ne doesn’t respond then, and as the silence grows Porthos starts to make coffee. He’s not hungry anymore. He’s just... weary.

“Porthos...?”

“Hm?”

“Will you forget me?”

“What?” He turns around, heart pounding in his ears, and finds Aramis looking intently at him. Ne seems collected and focused, but the weariness on nir face is a mirror of his own. “How could I ever- how could _anyone_ ever forget you?”

“Do you remember their names?”

Young faces, blood-spattered, lifeless; too many to count at first sight; puppets in the arms of those who carry them to the helicopters; golden letters on dark coffins; grieving families; speeches. Yet there isn’t a single victim he could name. None of those who aren’t Aramis anyway. Porthos feels his throat closing up and he keeps silent.

“You don’t.” There is not a trace of accusation in Aramis’ tone and maybe that’s what makes it so bad. The calmness, the lack of emotion. He wishes in this moment that Aramis would get up and hit him. Scream at him. Cry. Anything to replace the listlessness in nir features. But it doesn’t happen. Aramis just keeps looking at him, until Porthos whispers: “I don’t.”

At this, Aramis stands up. “I have to go.”

Porthos doesn’t say anything. He can’t blame nem for leaving. Not after this. Not after everything. Tears cloud his eyes. _Forgive me._ He knows ne won’t, and he knows he doesn’t deserve it anyway, but the words are out before he can think better of it: “Please, Aramis, forgive me.”

“It’s not your fault.” Now there’s sadness in nir voice and Porthos almost can’t bear it. “Don’t forget your promise.” Then Aramis leaves and Porthos' world cracks.

*

The call comes in the afternoon.

“Cons?”

“Porthos. Are you at home?”

“I am, actually.”

“Good, that's... good. Listen, d'Artagnan is on his way to pick you up and take you to HQ, ok?” Constance’s voice sounds shaky and it’s enough for Porthos to know that something is wrong.

“What’s this about? Constance? Are you alright?”

“I am, but- I’m sorry, Porthos.”

“Why, what happened?” Panic suddenly rears up in his chest and he can’t get it under control. _Will you forget me?_ His voice is barely a whisper when he says: “Please tell me it isn’t Aramis.” The other end of the line stays silent. He clenches the phone, but his hands start shaking violently. “Constance, what about Aramis?!”

“Aramis...” He hears how she shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “Aramis killed King at the memorial today.”

This time Porthos’ world shatters.


	3. count of casualty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for heavy angst (it's pretty much the only thing this chapter is about), and (non-too-explicit) violence and death.

**2009, winter**

“There you go. Coffee, black. Seems like you could use one.”

Porthos looks at the mug and then up at Constance who winks at him, smiling brightly. “Thank you,” he replies and can’t help but smile back despite his worry. _Stop it and focus_.

“Long night, huh?”, she asks and Porthos snaps back into reality, just as she returns to her desk and sits down opposite of him. There’s something playful and teasing in her voice. Any other day he would go with it, retort something and maybe bring up d’Artagnan to make her blush and roll her eyes and call him a child who should mind his own business (still smiling to herself, though), but he isn’t in the mood.

“Aramis said ne’d text, but ne hasn’t.” The worry’s stolen in into his tone and Porthos knows that Constance noticed, because she frowns for just a moment before she has her face under control again. “Look, I know it’s… it’s stupid,” he continues weakly. “Aramis is at work and all, but. I don’t understand it. Why isn’t ne texting?”

“Maybe they found out ne’s kept a phone on nem when ne had the strict order to go without private electronic devices?”, Constance offers and raises an eyebrow.

“I suppose that’s an explanation.” Porthos shrugs and considers a smile, deciding against it while trying his best to ignore the nagging feeling telling him that something is _wrong_. It’s not like Aramis not to text when ne said ne would. Ne’s inventive when it comes to hiding stuff or, if ne’s been caught, talking nir way out of a situation. (Aramis is charming to a level Porthos wouldn’t quite believe possible if he hadn’t witnessed it for himself.)

“Hey,” Constance says gently. “I understand you’re worried, really, Porthos, I do, but I’m sure everything is alright. It’s a training camp, after all.”

“In the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Exactly. No reason for anyone to be interested in it, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Come on, let’s do some work and if Aramis hasn’t gotten in touch with you in – say, an hour? Yeah, an hour seems reasonable – I will pretend not to notice when you sneak out to call nem, ok?”

Porthos nods, shoving his worry aside. “You set the timer.”

“Already on it,” Constance smiles and Porthos smiles back at her, thankfully. He flips through some pages of a report he should already be done with and takes a sip of the coffee Constance has brought him. It’s hot and bitter and his heart makes a weird twist when he swallows it. _Enough, this is ridiculous_ , he tells himself and sets the mug aside. _Aramis is fine_.

“Focus, hon. You still have fifty-nine minutes to go.”

“Fifty-nine minutes. Right.” Porthos exhales deeply and makes himself at least _look_ at the report.

An hour never passed any slower.

 *

“Aramis’ phone is dead,” Porthos announces as he drops back into his chair and meets Constance’s eyes. “I don’t like this. I think… Well, I have no fucking idea what I think.“ He rubs his face, shaking his head. “But I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“Maybe you can ask the Captain to give you an update?”

“I would, but I haven’t seen him today.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

“Athos isn’t here, either.”

Constance turns around until she faces Athos’ empty office desk. “That’s… unusual,” she says in a low voice, finally turning around but avoiding his gaze. Porthos’ heart practically leaps out of his chest, the feeling of worry and sickness suddenly even more omnipresent than before.

“I need to call Aramis. I need to call Aramis _now_.”

At this, Constance looks up again. Her mouth is set in a determined line. “We’ll find the Captain. Come on, let’s go.”

*

Porthos doesn’t have the right security status to enter superintendent King’s office, and neither does Constance, but he can’t let that stop him. Everything is a rush of voices – someone is yelling and he can’t tell if it’s him and if he started it – and motions and adrenaline, until someone grabs him and sits him down in a secluded area, right in front of the bureau. Captain Tréville is there, accompanied by Athos. It’s then when his world stops in its tracks, dragging every moment out to near unbearable endlessness. And Porthos is in the middle of it, moving even slower than everyone else, not able to think, not able to _breathe_.

“There has been an attack.”

The Captain’s words cause a crack in time and reality comes crashing down on him once more, unchecked and forceful enough to leave him stunned into silence. _No_. Sickness creeps up on him. _No_.

“We don’t know what happened yet, but there are… casualties. An on-scene team is looking for survivors, but they have only been able to locate bodies so far. As soon as the victims are identified I’ll get back to you with a list of their names.” Tréville looks at him and looks right through him at the same time. His eyes are empty. As are his words. “I’m afraid there’s not much hope for Aramis. I’m sorry, I really am. ”

Porthos bites the inside of his cheek and clenches his fists so hard that his nails cut the palms of his hands. The dull sting of pain keeps him anchored. It keeps him from grabbing Tréville and shaking the details out of him. It keeps him from punching the entirely too composed expression off Athos’ face. It keeps him from storming off, screaming that _Aramis_ _isn’t dead_. Aramis can’t be dead. Not Aramis. Not in fucking _Savoy_. Tears sting in his eyes and he’s close to breaking down, he knows it, but he fiercely bites the sobs back and averts his gaze.

“You’re dismissed, Porthos.”

Porthos feels desperate laughter building up in his chest. He’s on his feet and in Tréville’s face before he can think it over. Athos cuts in, stepping between him and the Captain. His face still lacks emotion, it’s like his features are set in stone. “ _Porthos_.”

It would be so easy to knock Athos out right this second. The only reason he doesn’t do it is because his body feels like it weighs a ton and he doesn’t trust himself to stand a fight. A tear slips over his face and he grits an apology out, before leaving the office. He can’t think. He can’t- not Aramis. There is a hand on his arm and someone saying his name, but he doesn’t care. It must be a terrible misunderstanding. A nightmare, some heartless joke. It can’t be real. He walks back to his desk and sits down; stares at his trembling hands, until they are blurred beyond recognition. He forces himself to think about Aramis, alive and well, but the image turns pale and bloody and lifeless.

 _Don’t be dead_ , he demands from the ghostly image, _don’t be dead don’t be dead don’t be dead don’t be dead._

 *

They urge him to leave. To go somewhere, _anywhere_ else. They’d call him if there were any news. D’Artagnan cautiously offers to give him a ride home. _Home_. He wants to laugh at that - because how could he ever go back there with Aramis dead…? -, but it comes out as strangled sob, and d’Artagnan apologizes and leaves.

Constance is the only person keeping him company in the hours that follow, furiously hammering on her keyboard with her eyes swimming in unshed tears. Whatever it is that she feels, Porthos can’t do it. He tries to, but he _can’t_. He’s just… numb.

The last message he has gotten from Aramis is burned into his mind. It’s on repeat in his head, too, spoken with Aramis’ soft voice, so often that the words have lost meaning, that he can’t decide where it begins and where it ends. But none of that matters. Not really. Not anymore. Because without Aramis? There is nothing left.

 *

“We have a leak,” Constance whispers and her face turns ashen. “How is that even possible?” She gets up in a hurry, but not before turning off her computer screen. “I need to tell the Captain. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t- don’t do that to yourself, ok? Just. Porthos, please wait for me.”

Porthos watches her run over to the stairs. He knows he should listen to her, because she knows better, she always does, but he’s already taking her place and switching the computer screen on again. And then it’s too late.

It’s a single shot and it’s blurry, but it’s all over the media (or so Constance’s monitoring says). Snow and blood. So much _blood_. Schemes of people, partly covered in fresh snow and screaming red. The sight of it tells him two things: One, the bodies must have been cold enough to not make the snow melt when the picture was taken, and two, they must have been wounded in a way that they completely bled out. The massacre – the execution - must have happened in the morning, or even earlier. How many lives could they have saved if they’d known…?

 _Aramis_.

Porthos stomach turns violently and he throws up into Constance’s dust bin.

 *

Hours pass. Constance doesn’t leave him alone again, and so she is the one who hugs and holds him when they finally tell him that they’ve found Aramis. Alive. Not by much. But. _Alive_. For now.

Porthos doesn’t allow himself to think about the time ne has been out there, alone, bleeding, slowly dying. He doesn’t allow himself to think about nem not making it. He doesn’t allow himself to feel guilty. Not yet.

 _Aramis lives_ , is his only thought as Constance, still embracing him, asks about the hospital, about what condition Aramis is in, about who is going to take him, Porthos, there, and about when they will be ready for departure. He’s not listening to the answers she gets. It’s too much to process. He wants to cry, but he’s out of tears. Relief has washed away the numbness and replaced it with a bone-deep exhaustion. He can’t keep up with what’s happening around him.

And so he keeps silent and waits for somebody to take him to Aramis.

(‘ _Shut up, you love me and my whining. Speaking of which, do you know how exhausting babysitting is? These kids are like a bunch of toddlers playing at being agents. I swear they will be the end of me one day. Whose idea was it to make me go to Savoy, anyway? I bet it was Athos’. He’s still angry that I saw him smiling the other day. Well, I have to go now. I have work to do, unlike someone else who accuses me of being “whiny”. I’ll text you tomorrow morning, ok? It’s going to be extra early so you get a little more empathetic to my struggles. You’ve been warned. Oh, and I love you too, in case you were wondering.’_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, it means a lot.


	4. deceiver of fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for (repeated) misgendering in this chapter.

**2010, NYE**

“We lost Marsac last night at the hospital. He never made it back to consciousness, so we couldn’t question him,” the woman in black, Ms. Meunier, says, pacing from one side of the room to the other. There is no pity in her voice, and Porthos never really expected it to be there. Not when Marsac tried to kill the Captain only a day ago. (Ms. Meunier functions as the Captain’s substitute for the time being, and she got the position because she’s been one of Armand Richelieu’s closest associates after he took over King’s office. It’s also through him that she’s familiar with the case and its details. Not that Porthos particularly cares, but Constance has told him before they were called into the meeting.)

She stops in her tracks, a small smile on her face. “But let’s look on the bright side, shall we? As you already know, shooting Marsac was the first documented activity of René d’Herblay since he killed King. That’s a start.”

Porthos looks at his hands and ignores the little burning stab to his chest. They’re wrong, both the pronouns and the name, and it’s a tiring repetition of what the media tells the world about Aramis. He thought he’d be numb to it by now; but as it turns out it still hurts _every single time_. Funny, how some things don’t change.

“We expect further activity during the next hours. Tonight is our chance to finally seize him. There is no way he can leave the city without drawing attention – so don’t celebrate too excessively, the Captain and I expect you to be ready on call. Understood?”

There is nodding all around and Porthos joins in. Of course he’ll be ready on call. He’s been ready on call for the last 187 days. That’s the acceptable version, anyway, when he’s in fact been ready on call for the last 4482 hours and 23 minutes. But nobody needs to know that. It’s his secret and he’s not willing to share it. Not even with Constance and d’Artagnan.

“Alright, then. I wish you a Happy New Year. Enjoy your free time while it lasts. You’re dismissed.”

The scraping of chairs and mild chatting accompany the unit leaving the meeting room, and even though most of the others ignore him, Porthos follows them. Well, he does until a voice calls him back: “Not you, Porthos. We need to have a talk, if you don’t mind.”

Some people cast him strange looks and Porthos makes himself not react. Constance mouths that she will wait for him outside. He shrugs and turns around to face Ms. Meunier – it feels an awful lot like he’s facing both his judge and his hangman. She raises an eyebrow, waiting for the door to close. When it does, finally, silence floods the room.

“So, it has been brought to my attention that you and René used to be partners.” Her voice is calm, but it can’t cover up the hard edges of accusation that slipped into her tone.

“That’s correct,” Porthos replies, and decides to ignore the part of her statement that demands to know how he hadn’t noticed the change in Aramis. How he could have let it happen. How he can continue to live with this responsibility. It’s a question he asks himself every day, but none he has an answer to.

“Both professionally and privately?”

“We were lovers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That was indeed what I was asking.” Her face is soft, but her eyes… her eyes are not. They’re cutting right through him and Porthos feels naked, exposed. At her will. “What I want to know is if this is this going to be a problem. Considering the fact that you’ve been sexually and romantically involved with this man, are you sure that you can make the right decision when the moment calls for it?”

 _With this man._ There it is again. Porthos does _not_ crack his knuckles as anger and pain rush through his body. He holds Ms. Meunier’s gaze, because she would interpret it as weakness if he didn’t. As silent confession. A reason to take him off the team.

“I’m sure,” he says and manages to sound almost convincing.

“Well, I’m not. I don’t know if you can be fully trusted around him.”

“Please, just.” Porthos collects himself, feeling too damn well how she is still _scrutinizing_ him. “I underwent multiple lie detector tests and each of them proved that I had no idea what Aram-“ He falters and simultaneously fights the urge to scream, because this just keeps happening, but it’s too important to maintain his composure in front of Ms. Meunier to give in to it, so he quickly corrects himself: “What René was up to. I’m not staying in our shared apartment anymore, and I’ve had weekly appointments with a company psychologist. Tomorrow is my final assessment. I would greatly appreciate it, if you could consider waiting for it before you make your final decision.”

“No need to get all worked up, Porthos.” Her smile is meant to be assuring, but it freezes something inside his chest. “I have no intention of doing whatever you think I’ll do. You’re valuable to the team. I would go as far as saying that you’re the key to d’Herblay’s takedown. I just needed to make sure you were on the right side.”

“I am.” _Liar_. “I’m with you.”

“Good, that’s all I wanted to know. You can go now.”

“Thank you,” Porthos hears himself say. His chest hurts. He wants out. Just out. No matter where to. He just wants to leave this building and be alone for a while, without anyone looking at him. Without anyone _watching_ him.

“And Porthos-“

He bites his lip, hard, and turns around again, just in time to see the renewed smile Ms. Meunier gives him as she says: “Happy New Year.”

*

Doing his job shouldn’t feel like betrayal but it does. And it _is_ betrayal; there is no way around it, if Porthos is honest with himself. Every bit of information – _private information_ – he shares about Aramis, even if it’s irrelevant, like nir love for hats, is an act of betrayal. It leaves him feeling sick and dirty and unworthy of ever having deserved Aramis’ affection.

But Porthos wasn’t the one who had picked up a sniper rifle and murdered King. He wasn’t the one who had disappeared. He was the one left behind with _nothing_. He almost gave up on himself, back then. The only thing that kept him going was work. (And his friends who remained with him breakdown after breakdown after breakdown.) He can’t lose his work, too. He wouldn’t survive it.

Porthos leaves the office and feels like it kept another part of him. He knows he is a traitor.

But so is Aramis.

*

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with d’Art and me?” Constance looks worried, but attempts a smile. “Athos is coming, too. We’ll count down to midnight and have a drink, and then probably go to bed like old people.”

“I don’t…” Porthos shrugs and hates how Constance’s smile fades. “Hey, listen. I love you, and I’m very grateful that you’re a part of my life, you know that, right?”

“Of course I do, hon. I just don’t want you to be lonely, that’s all.”

“I’m not lonely.” It’s a lie and he feels guilty for it, because that’s not what they do. They don’t lie to each other. Still, he forces a one-sided smile. “I just want to be alone for a while. Please don’t let me spoil your night, ok?”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe back to. You know. Just for tonight.”

“Promise to call me, if you need anything. And if Meunier calls-“

“I’ll wait for you to pick me up. I promise.”

Constance hugs him and gently kisses his cheek. “Be safe.”

“You too.” As Constance loosens her embrace, Porthos wishes he could stay. But he turns around instead and says: “Tell the others that I’m sorry I missed them.”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll be back next year.”

The look she gives him is serious. “I’m counting on it.”

*

The apartment is a mess. Every step further into the living room makes Porthos want to reconsider his plan and go back to Constance’s place. His heart is racing and there is a lump in his throat that makes it hard to breathe.

Everything lies scattered about. Clothes, books, paperwork, photographs, kitchen utensils, even the mattress. The team that took the flat apart did a good job of it. They left no square millimeter untouched. Too bad that their search for clues considering Aramis’ whereabouts and future plans stayed fruitless. Too bad they couldn’t find anything to incriminate Porthos either. And too bad they left the clean up to him. It was one of the reasons he moved out without a second thought when Constance offered to take him in. Because he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t live with it, but he also couldn’t clear it up. Not then, and not now.

It still feels like his and Aramis’ life got literally ripped apart, their shared memories torn into tiny pieces and spread throughout the whole apartment. It is impossible to be here and not think of everything he lost. Of Aramis. Ne is a gaping hole in his chest that consumes everything positive in his life. This emptiness, it’s so unlike everything Aramis stands for. Thinking of nem as someone who brings anything but joy is painful, but f _eeling_ that ne left him with an insatiable nothingness is almost unbearable.

Porthos bites his tongue, but it’s too late to stop the tears. The apartment mirrors him in every way imaginable. Messy, torn to pieces, abandoned - yet with Aramis being _everywhere_.

He bolts, leaving the key behind and slamming the door shut.

*

 _I miss you_ wakes up with him and goes to sleep with him too.

 _I miss you_ is edged into his heart.

 _I miss you_ is a confession that holds him under water until he drowns.

 _I miss you_ is followed by _How could you leave me behind?_

 _I miss you_ doesn’t dare say _Come back to me_.

 _I miss you_ keeps him together, just for now, just barely.

 _I miss you_ is synonymous with _I’m sorry_.

 _I miss you_ is the only prayer he has left.

 _I miss you_ is a truth nobody can ever know.

 _I miss you_ has to suffice.

*

Porthos wanders the streets, aimlessly. It reminds him of his youth, of growing up with hunger and cold being his closest - and most loyal - companions. (That is, until Flea and Charon turned his life around, and gave him something he still thinks of as home.) He doesn’t want to be back in this place, but a part of him wishes that it just… happened. That he could live in the past where everything seemed clearer. Simpler.

People pass him by. He doesn’t take much notice, avoiding physical contact without much afterthought. The crowd gets thicker. Noise penetrates the web of his thoughts, until he can’t ignore the voices and the laughter anymore.

Porthos swallows down the sudden bitterness that fills his mouth. He doesn’t want to be the one to resent others for their cheerfulness, but it’s hard. It’s _too_ hard and he feels his resolution cracking. Nobody knows him here, yet it still feels as though they’re showing off their happiness to demonstrate him what he can’t have. Bitterness shoots through his mind and body.

Porthos bites his lip until he tastes blood. It slips down his chin, leaving a warm wet trail. Good. Something to busy himself with. Wiping over his mouth and chin, he looks up into the silky night sky. Someone set off early fireworks. Their light is bright and colorful and fleeting.

They remind him of Aramis.

Maybe he will stay a while.

*

Seeing Anna King, widow to the late Louis King, on TV or newspaper covers used to make Porthos’ heart skip a painful beat. Now, alone at New Year’s, in a street he couldn’t name even if he wanted to, seeing her face just triggers a familiar sadness that seamlessly blends into the emptiness he feels.

Anna looks so dignified, with her head up high, holding her baby son in her arms, and a determination playing through her features that leaves no doubt that she won’t let come any harm upon him. The media, favoring her, calls her _Queen_ , and Porthos thinks that this is the only thing they’ve gotten right during the months of coverage of the King case. He also thinks that Aramis’ admiration – _love, call it by its name_ – was, or is, something he shouldn’t ever have been jealous of. Who wouldn’t love Anna? (As it is, Porthos doesn’t love Anna, but he feels a deep respect for her. Despite her husband’s murder, she never lost a word about Aramis, even though it would have been understandable, expected. He’s grateful for what feels like her _mercy_ , and maybe one day he’ll tell her so. And apologize. To her, to Louis Junior. His chest aches as he picks up the lost newspaper page and folds it neatly, before putting it under the nearest car’s windscreen wiper.)

The blasting of fireworks rips the night apart. It must be midnight. A new year. A new beginning. Porthos closes his eyes and allows himself to hold on to the past year just a little bit longer.

“Porthos...”

Something explodes in his chest. Maybe it is his heart, he isn’t sure. The only thing he’s sure of is that Aramis is there. Aramis. He shakes his head, not daring to turn around. Not yet. Aramis. It can’t be. _It can’t_. But there it is again, this unmistakable voice, and tears burn in his eyes.

“We’re running out of time.”

*

He should be furious, or angry at least. He should be relieved. He should scream and don’t care that it could draw unwanted attention. He should demand answers. He should warn Aramis that Ms. Meunier is closing in on nem. Hell, he should not even care about that. He _should_ do and feel many things, but the truth is that he’s too overwhelmed to do anything but react in the most basic ways.

Aramis dragged him into a random house entrance and it’s so surreal that he can’t think. Aramis checks him for weapons, wires, and Porthos doesn’t stop nem. Once ne’s finished, Aramis smiles crookedly, and Porthos looks away.

They are standing close now, nothing but a few inches (and a sheer unbridgeable silence) between them.

“How’d you find me?”, Porthos asks finally. It’s the easiest question, the one that doesn’t tear the badly covered wound open that is Aramis’ loss.

“I had help.” Aramis voice is soft and Porthos wants to look up, he wants to, he really does, but he can’t. It hurts. Knowing that Aramis sought him out only to leave him again. Because that’s what it is, right? Nothing but a short intermezzo, a fantasy that can’t last.

“Why did- _why_ , Aramis…?” He feels weak and his voice betrays him, but he doesn’t care.

“I can’t tell you. It would put you in danger.”

“Oh, now you care about my well-being?” He laughs darkly, desperation seeping into his mind and clouding his thoughts. “Thank you so much for your consideration, Aramis, it’s really appreciated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care. I don’t _fucking_ care.”

Armis’ fingers twitch. “Did they…?”

“What? _What_ , Aramis?”

“Did they ask for your help or did you offer it freely?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask that.” It’s merely a whisper, drowned out by the screeching voice in his head that reminds him that he is a traitor.

“You’re loyal, Porthos, I’m not going to hold it against you. Not when I… not after this.”

“How generous.”

“ _Porthos_.”

“No.”

Aramis huffs. “Will you look at me, please? Just once?”

Porthos shrugs and keeps avoiding nir gaze. Ne steps closer, though, so close they almost touch.

“I don’t expect you to understand. Or forgive me. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry it came to this. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t plan to abandon you.”

 _I didn’t plan to abandon you._ Porthos bites his lip and it stings dully. He’s been abandoned all his life. He’s used to being abandoned. It shouldn’t hurt so fucking much. Not anymore. Yet the pain is almost unbearable.

“I miss you,” Aramis says softly. “But I can’t stay. They’re onto me.”

“Wait.” Porthos can’t lose nem again, not before hearing from nemself that ne’s alright. “How are you-“ He’s at a loss of words, in this moment, because every phrase his brain comes up with sounds ridiculous and wrong, inappropriate given the situation. He stares at his fingers. “I mean how are you keeping up?”

“I get by. They say I’m a ‘man of many talents’.” Aramis’ voice is bitter and sad. “They’re not so wrong.”

“They are.”

“Maybe.” Aramis takes his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I love you.”

It’s enough to make Porthos look up. “Don’t.”

“Come with me.”

Porthos chokes out a laugh, shaking violently and feeling his eyes brim with hot tears. “You can’t be serious.”

Aramis doesn’t look surprised, but there are traces of disappointment in nir eyes. Ne sounds inconsolable when ne says: “I had to try.”

Silence. Fireworks.

“Will you be alright?” The question is nothing more than a whisper.

“Will you?”

_No. No, I won’t._

When they part after another few seconds of wordlessness, Porthos feels utterly empty. He turns around, desperate hope welling up in his chest, but Aramis is already gone. Ne disappears like a ghost, as if ne was never there.

Porthos wishes he could also disappear.

*

He’s not surprised when he’s grabbed roughly by the arms and made to sit down in Ms. Meunier’s bureau, when he walks into the office the next morning.

“Where is he?”

Porthos looks straight at her. “With all due respect, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You met him, didn’t you? You lost my people in this crowd and _met him_.”

“So you had me tailed?” It’s not news, he had noticed someone following him after he was alone again. He’d even expected them to confront him earlier. It's impossible to believe that nobody saw him with Aramis, but he hasn't been taken in for more _drastic_ questioning yet, has he? The absurdity of it makes him smile a little. “If you’d told me so, I could have saved you the trouble and given you my positions,” he tells Ms. Meunier calmly.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” The disgust on her face is almost tangible. “But you’re not. You can lie to me all you want, but you can’t fool the lie detector.”

“I have nothing to hide.” (Porthos is impressed by the absolute indifference he feels thinking about the consequences of his betrayal. He will not pass the test. Not this time. But he can’t care less.)

*

“Were you in contact with René d’Herblay in any way yesterday night?”

“No.”

The lie detector doesn’t show any irregularities. Porthos thinks about Aramis and wants to laugh, because they're _so_ close to the truth. It's obvious, it has to be, but they keep asking the wrong questions. Because they never listened. Because they never cared enough. It could be his salvation, this time. Aramis' chance to get away.

Ms. Meunier is livid. “He’s lying. Ask him again.”

The operating lady nods and repeats her question. He repeats his answer. Still no irregularities.

“ _Again_.”

*

They let Porthos go after two hours. Ms. Meunier shoves him aside and doesn’t give him another look. Later, Constance tells him that she cleared his name from the list of people associated with Aramis. Whose trail is cold. _Ne made it._ Porthos thanks whatever god is willing to listen.

"Are you okay?", Constance asks with a gentle look, as he sits down opposite of her.

"Yes." It feels like it could be true. Not necessarily right now, but someday. Maybe. "Thank you." For being his friend. For not asking where he'd been. For not bringing up Aramis. For being a better person than everyone else in this building. For everything.

Constance smiles as if she _knows_.

Eventually, Porthos goes back to work. It's like nothing changed.

(But everything is different.)


	5. empty with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter, at last. I'm sorry it took me so long to update. This is the longest part, though, so maybe it can make up for the wait. Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos. You're amazing.
> 
> Warnings for (explicit and implicit) violence, suicidal thoughts, and an almost-execution.

**2013, fall**

Porthos straightens his shoulders – ignoring the angry bite of pain that flares through his left side – and cautiously closes the door to Tréville’s office. _Click_. It’s the point of no return, and he expected… regret, maybe, or nostalgia. Something. Anything but this all-consuming relief. His heart pounds in his ears and he’s anxious, but the anxiety feels different from the one he’s become familiar with during the past few years. Holding the papers in his hands, finally, he feels like someone is about to set him free. The feeling is breathtaking and intimidating, and he wouldn’t want to give it up again.

“Porthos.”

“Captain.”

“Please, take a seat,” Tréville says and gestures him to sit down in the opposite chair, but Porthos shakes his head. Anticipation rushes through his body and his hands are trembling, but maybe it’s his whole body, he can’t tell, he just wants this to be over with. Once and for all.

“I mean no disrespect, Captain, but I’m just here to hand in my resignation.”

“I know.” Tréville smiles, then. A faded smile that reveals weariness and exhaustion. Not so unlike his own smile, Porthos thinks and wonders if people think he’s aged rapidly too. “You’re a good man, Porthos. I hate to see you quit.”

Porthos averts his gaze and makes himself remember all the times he had felt torn between duty and love. ( _Love_ , because he can’t let go of the past, he can’t let go of Aramis, even if Aramis had let go of him.) He thinks of the fact that his own team had never quite trusted him again after King’s murder. (And how that had started way before they had a legit reason to mistrust him, how they had accused him of being a traitor _before_ it was true. Porthos swallows bitterly.) He thinks about what this job has turned him into, what it has cost him, what he has done to keep it. Eventually, he thinks about Aramis. Ne’s not the only one he betrayed, there are also Constance and d’Artagnan and Athos. _Himself_. They all deserve better. _He_ deserves better.

Porthos looks up and places the papers, his service weapon, and ID in front of Tréville.

“Is there no way to make you change your mind?”

“No, sir.” _I’m sorry I failed you, sir._

“Well, then. I wish you all the best, Porthos.” Tréville rises from behind his desk and offers him his hand. Porthos takes it firmly. This time, he hardly feels the pain in his shoulder.

*

D’Artagnan is waiting for him outside, arms crossed and eyes bright with angry tears. He’s practically shaking, his anger even more radiating than his usual easy smile. “This is my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking _sorry_ , Porthos. I ruined your-“

“Hey, stop for a second and listen, ok?” Porthos tries a smile, even though he feels utterly helpless confronted with d’Artagnan’s rage. (It hurts, too, because d’Artagnan aims his anger at nobody but himself when he’s not even to blame.) “I’m not quitting because of this injury.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes fly to his shoulder and guilt overshadows his anger for a moment, until it comes back blazing and vicious and hot, and he bites his lip. Porthos hints a shrug with his good shoulder and says: “I had it coming for a long time, what happened just got me thinking about making it… final. It’s not your fault. Neither my shoulder nor me resigning.”

“If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t- I was reckless and you’re paying the price for it. This is not _fair_.”

“It was my decision and I stand by it. I’d do it again, you hear me?”, Porthos says softly and watches d’Artagnan wince. “We can settle for a last ‘thank you’, but then I don’t want to hear another word about it. Can we do that, please?”

“Thank you. _Thank you_.” He stares at the floor. “It’s still not fair.”

“I give you permission to take the next bullet that’s meant for me to balance our score, if that makes you feel better…?”

“ _That’s not funny_.” D’Artagnan breathes the words more than he says them and pulls him into a tight embrace, ever careful not to strain his shoulder. He wants to apologize for not telling d’Artagnan earlier that he’s leaving. He has only told Constance and the Captain. Not even Athos knows yet.

Porthos smiles despite himself. Surprise surprise, he’s not only a hypocritical liar he’s also a bad friend.

*

“Athos? Are you alright?” Porthos frowns at his phone, already grabbing his jacket and keys. His reaction is ridiculous and probably exaggerated, but the thing is, Athos _never_ calls. Well, he used to call Aramis from time to time, but obviously that doesn’t happen anymore. Now he doesn’t even call when he’s drunk and about to choke on his own puke. (It happened more than once, in fact, it happened quite regularly since Aramis was declared an enemy of the nation; not that Porthos can blame him for not coping well with that.)

“I… require your assistance.” Athos’ voice sounds weird. Slurred. There’s a pang of worry in Porthos’ chest because he _knows_ Athos’ drunken speech and that’s not it. This is different. This is alerting. Highly so.

“Are you at home?” Athos makes a noise that sounds like a confirmation. “Ok. I’ll be over in 20 minutes. Please call an ambulance if you’re about to die or something, alright?”

Athos laughs, strained, and the connection breaks.

Porthos swears.

*

The truth is, maybe he had wanted to die when he’d stepped into the line of fire. Maybe he had wanted to die when he’d shielded d’Artagnan with his own body.

It hadn’t been his primary thought in this moment, though. All he could think of as he was hit for the first time were the people who loved d’Artagnan, who’d mourn him, who’d miss him. All he could think of when his arm went limp was the way d’Artagnan seemed to brighten up everyone’s lives, how fiercely he protected those he cared for, how he’d beamed when Tréville offered him a training spot for a team leader position. All he could think of when he was hit again and blood poured mercilessly out of his body was how he’d felt when he’d thought Aramis had died in Savoy, and that he wouldn’t put anyone through the same horror, not when he could prevent it. All he could think of as he finally fell to the ground was that he made the right choice.

So what if it was going to be his last?

Aramis was by his side as he started to feel cold. It was the first time he’d felt connected to nem since they’d parted after that unfortunate night at the bar. He knew that he _should_ be in pain, yet all he felt was exhaustion and a strange notion of completion. And so he didn’t fight the urge to close his eyes, to slip away, because Aramis was with him and he didn’t dare to wish for more.

Porthos didn’t die, then. But maybe. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad a fate after all.

*

The front door isn’t looked as Porthos tries to open it. “Athos?”, he calls and isn’t sure if he’s ready for what’s expecting him inside. Different scenarios, ranging from absolutely ludicrous to downright horrible, went through his head while he was on the way to the flat. Not knowing what happened… it makes him jumpy and that _hurts_ , because his shoulder isn’t exactly forgiving anymore when it comes to abrupt movements.

“Living room,” comes Athos voice, steady now, and while that should make Porthos feel at ease it does the exact opposite. His fingers twitch. Wrong. There is something _wrong_. It reminds him of the day the Savoy massacre happened. The same creeping feeling that something terrible happened and is about to reveal itself any minute leaves him sick.

When he steps into the living room he sees Athos sitting on a chair, face composed, hands calmly on his lap. “Porthos,” he says but doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring at the opposite wall. Porthos doesn’t even see him blink. There’s dried blood hanging in his beard, some of it staining the collar of his shirt, and a fresh bruise spreads on the left side of his face. “You should stay back.”

“What the _hell_ , Athos?”

“I apologize for making you come here. I had no choice in that matter.”

Porthos instinctively goes for his gun, but the holster is empty. Fuck. He forgot. _Fuck_.

“There’s no need for that.” The voice makes Porthos stop dead in his tracks. His heart beats furiously, practically leaping out of his chest because _no_ , that’s not what he expected. That’s not what he’s prepared for. That’s not fair, that’s-

Aramis swiftly steps into his sight, a gun in nir hands that points to the floor. Ne turns nir head to Athos, still speaking softly: “If you move…”

“You won’t miss. Understood.” Athos still sounds calm, but the visible pulsing of his aorta tells a different story. Porthos can relate.

“What are you doing, Aramis? Did you. Did you do that to him?”

The disgust passes Aramis’ face in a small flicker, before ne breaks nir gaze away from Athos and focuses on Porthos instead. “I’m sorry I used him to manipulate you. I couldn’t think of another safe way to contact you.”

“What are you _doing_ here, Aramis?” He doesn’t mean to repeat himself, it just happens. He can’t think properly, but he still knows that it doesn’t make sense. That months of silence and a sudden visit – to _Athos_ , of all people – don’t fit together. Unless something happened. Something so severe that Aramis gave up nir hideout and… came back, punched Athos in the face and pulled a gun on him? It makes no sense.

Aramis smiles at him; the sadness this smile bears breaks his heart. “I’m here to give myself up.” Ne takes a step closer. “I’ll surrender to you, Porthos. But please.” Ne bites nir lip, suddenly urgent. “You have to listen to what Athos has to say. Isn’t that right, Athos?”

“Undoubtedly,” Athos agrees dryly and Porthos doesn’t understand a thing anymore.

“Why?”

“I’m tired of running.” Aramis’ voice is gentle. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“After everything. Everything we sacrificed. You’re just going to throw your freedom away because you’re _tired_?” Porthos feels his upper lip twitch, anger boiling white and hot through his veins. “Well, fucking newsflash, I’m also tired. But I didn’t- I’d never- how dare you?”

“How dare _I_?” Aramis’ laugh is a husky bellow. “I did not try to get myself killed five weeks ago. I did not deliberately take a fucking bullet. And then another. And _another_.” Nir eyes gleam with tears now. “Don’t believe for a second that I don’t know _exactly_ what you did there.”

Porthos is about to argue, but the words leave him. Because Aramis is right. Of course ne’s right. (He knows that half the department thinks he has a) a death wish and b) acted on it. He just wishes it wasn’t so obvious for d’Artagnan’s sake. If even Aramis knows – Aramis who wasn’t there, who shouldn’t know, who _can’t_ know – everybody knows.)

“Please. Listen to what Athos has to say. And then we can talk. Before you take me in. But _listen_ , Porthos, it’s all I ask of you.” Aramis looks terribly lost and painfully on the edge at the same time, and the fact that ne carries a gun doesn’t change the impression that ne’s the one at gun-point. “Please.”

“Ok. I’ll listen. But take down the gun first.”

“Take it,” Aramis says and hands him the gun promptly, without a moment of hesitation. Ne doesn’t step away from him again. “Athos. If you would be so kind.” Nir words are soft, but the emphasis on _kind_ is so exaggerated that it makes it sound like an insult.

“Aramis wants me to tell you about Savoy.”

“No, Athos, I want you to tell Porthos the _truth_ about Savoy. There’s this tiny difference between the two, you know.”

“I’m supposed to tell him _your_ truth, then.”

Aramis spits out a laugh and practically flings nemself in Athos’ direction, closing the distance until ne leans over him. “Well, you know what? Fuck you. And fuck the truth.” Ne is whispering now, sharp and cutting. “If you’re more comfortable talking about _facts_ , then talk about facts. But do it quick or I might lose my patience.”

“Aramis, what facts…?”, Porthos asks quietly, his heart beat gaining speed again. He is thankful for the weight of the gun in his hands. It gives him a feeling of being anchored, of being in control, even though he _sees_ how the situation slips away from him and develops a dynamic that is potentially deadly. When Aramis doesn’t respond, he looks at Athos. “ _Athos_ , what facts?”

It’s the first time Athos shifts in the chair, and Aramis turns around with shaking hands.

“On the 17th November, 2009 twenty recruits and two instructors were attacked during the attendance of a training camp located in Savoy. All of the twenty recruits were killed in the attack, one of the instructors deserted the group and went AWOL. The other instructor was barely alive by the time the rescuing team arrived on the scene.” Athos’ face is blank. “Agent d’Herblay was the only person we knew of who survived the attack.” Refusing to break his gaze away from the wall, Athos finishes in the same neutral voice he uses when he talks about work: “Aramis was witness to a scenario that didn’t even consider survivors. Things didn’t go as planned after that. It fell under King’s responsibility and he paid for this mistake.”

“What do you…? Are you saying that…?” Everything clicks into place. The one-sided silences. The non-existing phone calls. The excessive drinking. The way Athos had avoided talking about anything related to Savoy or Aramis. “You fucking _knew_ this would happen?” The rush of anger and the urge to throw up are equally strong, equally tempting, but Porthos forces himself to stand still. His eyes flick to Aramis who breathes in shallowly. “And you kept that knowledge to yourself all these years?”

“You wouldn’t have believed me. And I wouldn’t have believed me, either.” Aramis sounds lifeless, and Porthos can’t help but take nir hand. Which suddenly makes everything feel too close, too intimate. _Shit_. His heart is racing and he’s about to let go and apologize, but then Aramis squeezes back ever so lightly.

“And that’s it? You just… sit here and keep silent? After you basically confessed that you wanted everyone, including _Aramis_ , dead so you wouldn’t have to deal with the blowback?”

“What do you want to hear? That I’m sorry?” Athos huffs in frustration and shakes his head, but doesn’t move otherwise. “The Savoy incident was supposed to be a diversion from a more important mission the department was involved in at that time. Every agent knows what they’re signing up for when they join our unit. They did their part, and we did ours. The deaths were… unfortunate but necessary.”

“They were kids, Athos. _Kids_.” Aramis starts shaking again. “You murdered kids who weren’t even sworn to the department. Sending Marsac and me into death, alright, we knew what we got into _when we swore our oaths_ , but these- these rookies? They did not deserve to die and be displayed as a fucking _distraction_. You had no right.”

“It wasn’t my call to make.”

Porthos swallows heavily as Aramis pulls back nir hand and clenches nir fists. He wants to punch the wall until his bones are shattered, and the pain covers up the feeling of omnipresent betrayal. He wants to sit down and cry, too. But the tears don’t come. Instead a cold, hard violence builds up in his chest. His voice is low, not much more than a growl when he finally feels up to speak again: “Just. Let me get this straight. You knew Savoy was going to be a horrible massacre. You didn’t tell anyone, not even when they sent your best friend to join the training camp. You sacrificed the recruits and betrayed Aramis. You lied to me. You lied to everyone. And you have the audacity to tell us everything you did was for the _greater good_?”

“What good would it have done if you knew? If any of you knew? It wouldn’t have changed anything. The attack was non-negotiable.” Athos sounds somehow distraught now. “I did my duty. As you would have done in my place.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this bullshit,” Porthos snaps. “Get up.”

“What are you doing?”, Aramis asks softly. Then, suddenly realization hits nem, and alertness makes nir eyes shine. “Don’t. Porthos. He’s not worth it.”

"I don't care."

“I fear you haven’t quite thought this through.”

“ _You_ shut up.” Grim hatred burns through Porthos’ chest and he points the gun at Athos. “Turn around. Put your hands where I can see them.”

Athos looks at him before he slowly follows his command, gets up and interlaces his fingers behind his head.

“Kneel.” The sound, the picture of it – it all _screams_ execution, and Porthos would be overwhelmed by disgust if he wasn’t already completely overwhelmed by the desire to punish Athos for what he did. _Stop_ , a small voice pleads but it isn’t real and Porthos doesn’t _want_ to listen. He looks at Aramis. Ne isn’t moving anymore. Ne doesn’t even seem to breathe, but he _can’t_ think of nem now.

“ _Kneel_.”

This time Athos complies, again without a word, but he does it so slowly that it feels like hours before his knees finally rest on the floor. He still holds his head up high, and there is a calm certainty in his tone as he says: “You won’t kill me.”

“Fucking try me. Not even I can miss from this distance.”

“You won’t risk anybody hearing the shot.”

“Yeah? I’m not so sure about that. If you have something to say, then better do it now.”

“If you insist on doing this... I’m not in a position to stop you.” Athos glances at Aramis. “I never meant to put you through this. You were a victim of circumstance and I wish I could change that, but...”

“It’s too late,” Aramis whispers and a tear slips over nir cheek.

“It’s too late. I’m sorry.” Porthos almost believes him. Almost. “Take care of each other.” Athos smiles faintly. “It's amazing. You know, I always suspected you were staying in contact, I just never had proof. The agents who followed you on New Year’s when Ms. Meunier was in charge took pictures from your encounter, but the data turned out to be corrupted before anyone could identify either of you. I have no idea how you did it, but I have to congratulate you. It’s an unsolved mystery to this day.”

 _Constance_ , is Porthos’ initial thought. _Constance_. Her name pierces through the veil of hatred with such force that he almost drops the gun. It _had_ to be her. Nobody else would’ve dared to commit treason and risk their own skin to help him out. Nobody else would’ve had the courage and calm efficiency to hack into the system, and destroy the evidence of his betrayal. He loves her so fiercely in that moment that he wants to scream.

“You’re a good man, Porthos. I hate that it has to end like this.”

And there it is again, hot and white and omnipresent. It’s the same situation as in front of King’s office, all these years ago. But this time, nobody is stopping Porthos. He gives in. The hilt of the gun crashes against Athos’ temple - and he topples over, headfirst, hitting the floor. Blood streams from the wound.

Porthos exhales shakily. Weakness takes a hold of his body, and it’s so sudden that he almost joins Athos on the floor, all while Aramis looks at him with an unreadable expression. Laughter, _desperate_ laughter, builds up in his chest, and he’s aware of the pain in his shoulder once more. “I almost did it. I almost pulled the trigger. I almost killed _Athos_.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was so fucking close. I can’t believe it. Oh god, _fuck_.” Porthos smiles helplessly. “Aramis? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I shouldn’t have- it wasn’t my place. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Aramis says quietly and hints a shrug. “I’ll tell them I hit him. You lost enough because of this, there’s no need to risk your job. I’m irredeemable anyway.” Ne closes nir eyes for a moment and when ne opens them again, they’re gentle and don't hide the exhaustion anymore. “I’m done with this. I hereby surrender to you, Porthos Du Vallon. You should make the call.”

 _No_. _No no no_. The words practically spill out of Porthos' mouth: “No, wait, I won't- I can't. I quit. I quit, Aramis.”

“You... you quit.”

“Yes. This is incredibly absurd, I know, but I think that our timing’s finally right.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't you understand? We can leave now. Together. For good, if that’s what it takes. It’s the perfect opportunity. We can go and never look back.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” It hurts, the frantic grin that forces itself on his lips. “Please. Don’t make me watch you get arrested. I can’t lose you again.”

Aramis frowns at Athos’ unmoving body, the tips of nir fingers moving restlessly over the palms of nir hands. Then ne takes a quick step towards Porthos and places a light kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” ne whispers against his skin. And then again. _Okay_.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

*

The cell rings. Constance looks up from her book, shortly considering to just ignore whoever disturbs her, but decides against it with a sigh. (The last time she’d ignored a call, d’Artagnan had broken a window to get into the apartment because, apparently, he’d forgotten his keys and guessed she wasn't at home because she'd not picked up. So ignoring a call wasn’t a mistake she was likely to repeat in the near future. Not even on her day off.)

“Yeah, hello?”

“Constance. It’s me. I- I’m leaving. We’re leaving together. Aramis and me. And I’m calling to say that I owe you everything. I-“ Porthos sounds breathless at the other end of the line. “Thank you. _Thank you_. I’m forever in your debt.”

“Is anyone tracking this?”, Constance asks softly into the silence of the room. She doesn’t even need details to know that this is goodbye. For a long time, forever maybe. The thought makes her throat close up.

“It’s Aramis’, it’s safe. We’ll get rid of it as soon as this call's over. I wouldn’t get you into trouble.”

“I know, hon. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Listen, I don’t know when we’ll see each other again, but I’ll find a way to reach you, ok? I love you, Constance.”

“I love you too.” Tears well up in her eyes, but she nods and smiles, because how could she ask him to stay? “Take care. Both of you.”

“You too. I’ll miss you.”

“Me too. Just promise me that you won’t get caught.”

“I promise.”

“Good.”

“Constance?”

“Hm?”

“We’ll meet again.”

“I’m counting on it.” Constance bites her bottom lip and ends the call before Porthos has a chance to reply. The tears are hot on her cheeks, and somehow her heart won’t stop pounding in her ears, and her throat already _hurts_ , but that’s ok, she tells herself, it’s only temporarily.

Porthos and Aramis will be fine. As will she be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel (and a prequel) are in the planning, so this isn't necessarily the end to all ends. 
> 
> Thank you again!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cis, so if I've been disrespectful or offensive in any way, please call me out and I will make the according changes. Thank you for reading!


End file.
